Nordquist Blog

Normally I would have missed it. My eyes would have been fixed on the road while I zoned out to sports radio. Or I’d be watching the rear view mirror trying to figure out why Lincoln’s tongue is aimed towards his sister. It’s always something, and that something is occasionally heard but seldom seen from the driver’s seat. 

I’m usually asleep at 5:45 am. But I’d just finished dropping Kim off at the airport. The kids were asleep before we made it out the rat maze they call the parking terminal. The radio was off. All I could hear was Kai breathing as he sat flopped over in his carseat behind me.

With Kim in Utah for a few days it would be the only twenty minutes of peace and quiet I’d have over the next fifteen hours.

But the next fifteen minutes were mine as I made my way down State Route 167 towards our Auburn exit. Snow-capped Mount Rainer dominated the background. The sun inched over the horizon giving the valley hope that winter is on its way out of the Puget Sound.

Other than a few freight trucks I had the road to myself. I didn’t bother moving left into the carpool lane. I told myself I can drive 70 without attracting the attention of the highway patrol. What cop wants to pull over a white minivan?

Large fields run parallel to the highway. They’ve always been there. I’ve been driving this same route almost everyday for the past four years, and yet I’ve never paid much attention to the landscape.

But what caught my attention this morning was how the fog suspended itself over the fields. From the corner of my eye it looked as though someone had created a huge down-filled pillow that gently swayed over the fields in the early morning breeze.

I lifted my foot off the accelerator. The van slowed. I considered waking the kids. I wish Kim had been sitting next to me. She would have understood.

As I grow older I appreciate when nature speaks to my soul. Such experiences compel me to evaluate where I stand with my family and friends. And with God.

Nature has a way of inviting us to reflect on our lives when that’s the furthest idea from our minds. This was one of those moments. It lasted but a few minutes.

I believe it was nature’s way of saying we’ll survive mom’s five day absence.

But I’ll keep the Benadryl handy just in case.

I would have seen the Lego had I turned on the lights. But I know the route from our downstairs bathroom to my bed by heart. Only seven steps in the dark and I’m at the stairs. From there I guide my hand along the railing and wall to our bedroom where I’m ready to crash.

But on this night, a red Lego was waiting for me on step number three.

My calf is already sore from a racquetball accident. It would have healed by now, but I refuse to stay off the basketball court long enough for it to properly heal.

“Why can’t the kids pickup their toys?” is the first thought through my mind. Had I not been the only one awake I would have yelled loud enough for them to hear.

My ankle is fine. I’m just tired from reminding the kids to pickup their toys before heading to bed.

The next morning nobody admits to leaving out the Lego when I describe my adventure from the night before. Could be any of them. Yet I know that pinning the blame on one of them won’t make my foot feel better.

I let it go.

My afternoon was spent in downtown Seattle. Oh, how I miss working in the city. The sounds and scents make the area feel so alive. I walked through the neighborhoods, and it felt as though it were 1994 and I’d just moved to the Emerald City all over again. Many of the same florists, bakeries and second-hand stores are still in business. The coffee shops were packed on this crisp March afternoon, and the wind blew the roasted evidence through the streets.

Kim picked me up from the train station tonight. Once home, I plopped on the couch and tried to rest my mind with Sponge Bob blaring in the background. All that walking had caught up to me.

And that’s when I noticed our two year old son running to the top of the stairs. His momentum nearly took him down the first set of steps, but he clung to the wall  just enough to gather himself. From behind his back appeared a Lego that he promptly tossed down to the landing. He giggled before he ran off in search of more.

Now it began to make sense.

I watched Kai search. Then run, toss and giggle. Over and over until the landing was covered in Legos and other toys.

That’s my son, I thought. He’s so happy. So carefree. Maybe I should stop him but I don’t. I know I would have done the same thing. If he enjoys tossing Legos today does that mean he’ll toss around a baseball in the front yard with his father one day?

Tonight, Kim placed an exhausted little boy in my arms as we watched the Office.  He was so tired he allowed me to finger comb his floppy blonde hair without pushing my hand away. I looked at his face and wondered aloud if he looks more like Kim or me. I don’t recall his three siblings being so active or demanding at this age. Maybe they were, and my memory is fading with age. 

But these few minutes with Kai beat the Office. Even the one hour episodes. Moments like this don’t last long. Eventually he awakes and scampers away. There are endless Legos to throw.

And if I go to bed with another sore foot tonight, it will have been worth it.

Like many people who work and play on a Windows PC, I upgraded our three computers to Windows 7 over the past couple of weeks. I’ve got to hand it to Microsoft because the process of installing Windows 7 is very smooth and painless as long as you own gear that’s no more than a few years old.

Windows 7 includes most of the popular drivers you need for your peripherals, and that’s a good thing, because searching for drivers can be an experience fraught with peril.

Installing drivers has never been a straightforward process on Windows. Each hardware manufacturer has their own way of doing things which can lead to confusion.

For example, I went searching for the latest drivers for my Creative X-Fi soundcard when Windows 7 could not locate them. Creative provides what they call the “Creative Software AutoUpdate” that detects what Creative products I have on my system and finds the latest drivers for me. When I run this program it gives me the following options:

1. Creative MediaSource 5 Player/Organizer (36MB) – categorized as a “Critical” upgrade. What’s so critical about a media player?

2. Creative MediaSource Player Organizer (52MB) – categorized as “Recommended”. Huh? Is this for people who passed on the first option? Now I’m confused.

3. Creative Sound Blaster X-Fi Smart Recorder for Windows Vista (29 MB) – Categorized as “Recommended” but I can’t help but think Creative isn’t even trying anymore. Why do I need a sound recorder built for Windows Vista when I’m running Windows 7?

4. Creative SoundFont Bank Manager (7 MB) – another “Recommended” update and I’m ready to give up. That’s 124 MB worth of software with no driver in sight.

And those are only the first four options! I’m also presented with the choice to download and install Creative Audio Control Panel, Creative Console Launcher, Creative WaveStudio 7, and something called Alchemy. Maybe I can use Alchemy to change my soundcard to gold if I can’t find the driver that enables it to produce sound.

I scroll up and down the page looking for the driver. And I finally notice a link at the bottom for SB X-Fi Xtreme Music, Driver version 2.18.13. I guess this is what I’m supposed do install? I hope! There’s no description. No help. I’m looking for something along the lines of “Install this and your computer will have sound” but that’s apparently too much to ask.

And don’t get me started on installing printer drivers. What a total nightmare. I gave up waiting for HP to write a driver for one of their older models to work with Windows 7 and bought a  new model from Brother. Had I been able to get my HP printer working, they wanted $107 for the toner. The Brother printer and toner cost $52 shipped from New Egg.

My father had similar printer problems when he upgraded to Windows Vista. I went looking for a driver for his printer, but HP provided a work-around that included tricking his machine into thinking it was a newer model. And this was easier than writing a native driver? Good thing the 12-step process worked! At least until Windows 7 arrived.

I spoke with my father this evening and his printer stopped working once he installed Windows 7. Instead of jumping through hoops again, he bought a new printer. From HP.

Aha, now I’m starting to understand this whole charade.

HP is hardly the only company with sketchy driver support for Windows 7. When I went looking for drivers for my Canon photo printer, I was told none existed but maybe the ones written for Vista would work. Can you imagine your mechanic saying, “I don’t have a radiator for your Honda Odyssey, but let’s give this one made for a Civic a whirl.”? It’s amazing what we’re willing to accept with computers.

And yet printers and soundcards are a piece of cake compared to updating the firmware or chipset for your motherboard. Want to watch a new computer user’s brain explode? Ask them to update all the drivers associated with their motherboard. Even reputable companies like Asus provide a confusing process with dozens of choices. A search for BIOS updates for my motherboard returned 37 results from the Asus website.

On the bright side, it’s crazy design flaws like this that ensure I have a job. If computers were easy to understand and maintain, I’d probably be teaching German to a bunch of high school sophomores.

Years ago I complained to my father about how a certain coach motivated his players. My father replied that coaches can’t be expected to tailor their personality and approach to dozens of athletes. Coaches expect players to adapt to their style.

That makes sense when managing large teams.

But it doesn’t make a lot of sense when managing children. Yet that’s what I spent the first few years as a father doing. I wanted to be fair. So I approached each of them in the same manner, assuming the same methods would work for all four children.

For the past several weeks we’ve been taking our kids to a local swimming pool. None of our children have been around water much, and each of them is just beginning to learn to swim. Lincoln likes to play tag in the pool. He learns by swimming around the pool in all directions trying anything to avoid being tagged.

Anna is comfortable diving under the water. She prefers to tell me what she’s going to do and asking me to watch her. She pushes herself to improve and is thrilled when Kim or I watch her learn something new.

Last week, I felt that Luca wasn’t making as much progress as the others. I asked if she wanted to play tag. Nope. I asked if she wanted to jump off the side of the pool. Nope. Nothing I suggested was of interest to her.

She didn’t want to swim to the deeper end of the pool either and clung to her mother when I asked. I left her alone for a few minutes. Eventually she came to me and asked if she could swim to me. It was her idea, not mine. She’d cling to the side of the pool until I moved twenty feet away. She’d then let go and swim to me. She did this over and over until she made good progress. She’s had to work harder at this than her siblings, but she’s coming along well.

I’m beginning to understand that each of my children have unique personalities although we are part of the same family. I can’t act like the coach of a large team and expect each of them react the same way to my way of helping or motivating.

It would be a lot easier to treat them all the same. But I wouldn’t get to know them as well.

Last Friday, the alarm on my iPhone went off just before 6 am. I stumbled out of bed, put on gym shorts and laced up my Hyperdunks. In less than ten minutes I was heading to the gym with my neighbor to play basketball.

For the next 90 minutes I ran up and down the court. My shot wasn’t falling but that didn’t matter. I was there for the exercise, and I love the ebb and flow of the game.

As much as I complain to myself, once I get to the gym I can’t imagine being anywhere else. This school in Kent must have been built no later than the 1940’s. The glass boards drop from the ceiling. The rims are forgiving and are adorned with long nylon nets which flip up inside themselves on the perfect baseline swish shot. 

With my workout complete, I jump in the shower before heading to work. Then comes that time of day I dread: picking out my clothing for the day.

Kim has her own closet and I have mine. The right side is filled with clothing that fits me today. The other side is filled with shirts and pants that no longer do. Every morning I’m reminded of this fact so I seldom open the left side of my closet. It’s full of Dockers in perfect condition. Dress shirts hang there that haven’t been worn more than a few times. Even a couple of belts that used to fit around my waist.

Three years ago I got tired of being overweight and lost 60 lbs over the course of seven months. I did it by cutting sugar from my diet, monitoring carbohydrates and exercising. There were no secret formulas or magic pills. It was difficult. Bad habits occasionally surfaced. But I stuck with it and was down to within a few pounds of my goal. 

But by last December I’d gained back all but 15 lbs. Over time, I’d replaced my size large shirts with extra large ones. My jeans went from 34 to 38 and even those were tight. I had less energy to spend with my kids and my sugar cravings had returned in full force.

Sugar is my kryptonite. It’s the domino that triggers bad habits. I’m constantly fighting the urge to consume it through cookies or donuts or Chewy Sweet Tarts. Yet, once it’s out of my system, the cravings subside, and I am able to eat healthy foods without constantly feeling hungry.

When I went back to work after the holidays, I decided to change my eating habits. I began playing racquetball every Tuesday night. I joined a group of friends for basketball a couple of times each week. I got my butt back on the treadmill.  I began taking my lunch to work or making a salad at the Microsoft cafeteria. I’ve tripped up a few times. When that happens I move on instead of pouting over a bowl of ice cream.

Back to last Friday morning while I’m staring at my closet. I decide to pull down a pair of black Levi’s from the left side of my closet. I tell myself they probably won’t fit, but it will motivate me to keep going.

I was shocked when I was able to pull them on and fasten the buttons without suffocating myself. I checked the tag to make sure they were the smaller size. I could not believe it.

I was so happy I called out to Kim, “Hey, check this out! It’s been two years since I’ve been able to wear these.”

But I know I still have a ways to go. I know I can lose the weight. I know I’ll be able to get down to a weight I’m comfortable with. But I also understand that keeping the weight off will be a lifelong battle.

But I’m off to a good start. And most important, I feel better and have more energy to spend with Kim and the kids.

The assignment was simple: write two pages about an activity you enjoy. I sat near the back of the class next to my best friend’s girlfriend.

My friend was in Portugal for two years, and I was supposed to keep an eye on his girl. I failed miserably, but that’s another story.

As I left class and walked across Harrison Blvd to my home, I thought about topics I could write about. I’d written very few papers in high school, and didn’t enjoy the process at all. I didn’t feel as though I had any talent as a writer. Writing skills belonged to the students taking AP English.

I knew I’d have to improve now that I was taking college courses at Weber State College.

I considered writing about sports. Maybe the Utah Jazz. But I felt it would take too much research. And what could I say that had any feeling or personality?

I searched for a topic on which I could tell a story: one I felt passionate about. Finally, I decided to write about music. I probably spent three hours writing two pages. In a simple vocabulary, I wrote how I enjoy listening to music in the car.

A friend had recently introduced me to Pink Floyd. I immediately fell in love with Dark Side of the Moon so much that I wore out two cassettes in less than a year. I captured how I listened to this album as I drove up curvy Ogden canyon to see the leaves change colors. It was nothing special, but it was personal.

I asked my mother to proofread it, and she gave me a few suggestions which improved the paper’s clarity. She enjoyed what I’d written. But aren’t all mothers supposed to like what their children create? I wasn’t convinced it was any good and was nervous to hand it in that Friday.

That next Monday I showed up for class and sat in the last row. The professor walked through the door and plopped a stack of papers on his desk. He stared at us for a while. His expression told us he wasn’t in a good mood.

When he finally spoke, he explained how disappointed he was with the effort we’d given the assignment. He felt we could do better. He didn’t mince words. I was glad I’d decided to sit in the back. He explained that we had two days to rewrite our papers before he began returning them.

I waited for my name to be called.

And waited.

There were maybe 35 students in the class.

I was worried my paper was lost. Why wasn’t he calling my name?

The professor finished handing back the papers until he had one in his hand. He said, “I’m going to read to you the only paper I will accept.”

He began reading my paper. I was stunned. This can’t be happening. My friend nudged me, “Is that yours?”

The reason I decided to write about this experience is because this is the only instance I recall where a professor complimented my writing. I still had nearly four years of college ahead of me at the time.

But that didn’t matter.

All it took was this one professor. He saw potential in me and was willing to share it. That gave me confidence at an early stage of my college experience that carried through the next four years.

I still have that paper. Probably packed away in the garage under junk I don’t need.

I’ll bet the B+ grade written in red ink is still visible in the upper right corner too.

As I’ve written before, I attended four years of high school with my father who was a teacher and coach. He left early each morning. Much earlier than I needed to be up. But most days he’d give me a ride home after football, basketball or baseball practice. Even if he had to wait around for practice to end.

The drive from the high school to our home only took ten minutes which was plenty long when I played poorly. But the majority of the time we enjoyed each other’s company. It was a few minutes out of each day when he could get to know me a little better away from the hectic practice schedule.

We talked about school and sports. Even girls. Whatever I wanted to talk about. He never forced the discussion.

Having children of my own, I understand how difficult it is to carve out time for each child. It takes patience. It takes planning. It’s a lot easier to toss them all in the van and go for a ride.

But those 1×1 instances with my children often result in the deeper relationships.

After the kids went to bed tonight, Kai awoke and began crying. Kim brought him downstairs so the other kids could go back to sleep. I bounced him on my leg as he grabbed peanuts and Mini M&M’s off my desk. At one point he began drinking my ice water through a straw. Warm tears streamed off his cheeks and onto my arm.

I thought about putting him down or sending him back to mom. That way I could go back to writing and listening to music without a two year old wiping his nose on my shoulder.

But I thought of those moments I had with my father all those years ago. Five minutes here. Ten minutes there. The duration wasn’t as important as the frequency. And that my father was there.

He was there back then. And he’s still here today whenever I need to talk.

That’s what I want my children to say one day.

When they no longer need a ride home from school.

“What are all those pictures on the wall for?” Lincoln asked as we sat on a wooden bench waiting for the next available stylist to cut his hair.

“Those are pictures of people with different hair styles”, I replied. “Do you see one you like?”

“They all look weird”, he said.

Lincoln sat close to me on the bench but not too close. His legs dangled off the edge. He scanned the walls looking at all the pictures of people with hair in various stages of disarray.

“How come the guys don’t wear shirts?” he asked.

I explained that he could look around until he found one he liked, and when the stylist asked how he’d like his hair cut, he could point to that picture.

He continued to scan the picture covered walls. I wondered what he was thinking given the models were at least three times his age.

It wasn’t long before Lincoln’s name was called.

He jumped off the bench and climbed into the black barber’s chair. A young women wrapped a black apron around his neck before tapping her foot to raise the chair.

Lincoln stared at himself in the mirror while the woman ran her fingers through his hair before asking, “How would you like your hair cut?”

He looked around the room one more time.

“Can you cut it like my dad’s?”

Good things happen when I keep my shirt on.

Remember when the Olympics were not just the main attraction but were the only attraction? Before 200 cable channels, high definition sets, and Twitter. A time when your friends, your neighbors and the country spent a couple of weeks glued to the television each evening.

When the US hockey team shocked the world in 1980, we still practiced bomb drills at school. Get under your desk and stay out of the hallways to avoid flying glass. We were taught to be afraid of the Russians, but were not told why. Communism to a 12 year old boy didn’t mean much.

I searched our set of encyclopedias for pictures of Russians. They wore big furry coats and funny hats. But they didn’t look all that different from myself. What was so evil about them?  An older friend told me they didn’t believe in God. But that didn’t scare me into hating them. I couldn’t figure it out.

But I did understand sports, and that’s what mattered. We talked about the win over the Russians at the dinner table. We discussed it at church. My history teacher used the game as a metaphor for how the free market system is superior to all others. The hockey team transcended the sport. One could not escape the excitement.

And why would one want to?

Watching Lindsey Vonn and Shaun White brought back memories of watching the games with my family. Did you catch Vonn’s interview shortly after her win in the downhill? She was asked about how she might fare in two upcoming events. She laughed and smiled and replied, “I don’t care!” with tears streaming down her face.

I loved that.

I remember watching gymnast, Mary Lou Retton, nail a 10 on the vault to win the all-around event in 1984. My mom and sisters went parading through the house when she landed firmly on both feet.

We cheered on many athletes including Kristi Yamaguchi, Bonnie Blair, Carl Lewis, and Sarah Hughes. Remember Katarina Witt and Oksana Baiul? It didn’t matter they represented other countries. They possessed so much personality and grace that I could not help but root for them.

But, for me, one Olympic performance stands above all others.

It was the back story of speed skater, Dan Jansen that drew me in and wouldn’t let go. At the 1988 Winter Olympics in Calgary, Jansen was the heavy favorite in the 500 and 1000 meter races. On the morning of the 500, his sister passed away, and he fell early in the race. A few days later, he fell again in the 1000 meters and went home without a medal.

At the 1992 Winter games in Albertville, he arrived as the heavy favorite again but finished 4th in the 500 and 26th in the 1000 meters. He left the games without a medal and many wondered if he’d ever recover from so many heartbreaking defeats.

When the 1994 games in Lillehammer rolled around, expectations were tempered a bit. But there was hope he’d finally reach the medal stand. When he finished 8th in the 500 meters many thought he’d lost out on his best chance to medal.

I was in my last few months of school at the University of Utah and I spent nights studying at the student union center for two reasons: I could catch Seinfeld on the big screen and jump over the Fun House pinball machine when I’d had enough German lit for the night.

When I noticed a group gathered around the lone big screen TV, I made my way over to watch Jansen’s last race of the games. There must have been 30 of us gathered around. Everyone was standing. Yet there was little chatter among the group. Of course, we heard Jansen’s story again and were reminded this could be his last Olympic race. We’d all heard it before.

As Jansen approached the starting line, nobody said a word. I tried to jostle myself a little closer to the TV.

But when the gun went off to start the race the place went crazy. People were screaming and cheering. It was surreal. I had a difficult time seeing the screen as those in front of me were jumping up and down. When Jansen crossed the finish line in world record time wrapping up the gold medal, the place exploded. Several guys gave me high fives. Strangers were hugging each other. I didn’t know anyone in the group that night but it didn’t matter.

It’s the only time I’ve cried while watching a sporting event.

Watching the video on YouTube still gives me chills. The race starts at the :54 mark, and the excitement isn’t diminished one bit by the fact I have no idea what language the announcers are speaking. But you can hear the joy in their voices as they count down the last few seconds and finally crescendo when Jansen finishes.

I believe the world was pulling for Jansen that day. Listen to the crowd. Watch flags go up from all over the world.

What an amazing performance. What an amazing story.

Kim and the kids were downstairs decorating Valentine’s Day cards. I decided to slip upstairs and relax. 

How often do you sit back and think? No music or TV blaring in the background. Phone turned off. No distractions or interruptions.

I don’t do this very often. Or when I do, I allow my mind to wander to an email I should send or wonder how tonight’s rose ceremony on the Bachelor will go down.

But tonight was different.

I sat there on a couch a friend gave us a few years back. It doesn’t match the room, and only the dog considers it comfortable. We’ve talked for four years about replacing it. We’ll probably still be discussing its replacement in another four years.

When I sat down on it tonight, I was pleased to find it was missing only one cushion. I turned my body to the side and eventually found a comfortable position with a blanket wedged under my head because I didn’t feel like tracking down a pillow.

And there I sat for a while thinking about nothing. I could hear the rain coming down on the back porch, and occasionally I’d hear one of the kids laugh from the basement. But it’s been a while since I carved out some time to just think.

As I was about to head downstairs to see how the Valentines were coming along, Luca tip-toed up the stairs and curled up next to me. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t try to tickle me or beg for gum or root beer.

We talked for a while. We laughed a lot. She asked me dozens of questions, many of which I couldn’t answer such as, “What is your worst favorite color?” (Pink is her answer)

She whips through topics so fast I can barely keep up. She tells me about a film she watched at school followed by something funny one of her classmates did at recess before explaining why she should be able to stay up late to watch Men in Black 2.

And like that, she was off to check on her Valentines.

I went back to staring at the wall.

But this time the first thought that popped into my mind was this: Everyone should be so lucky to have a daughter who doesn’t care if the couch is uncomfortable and missing cushions.

Occasionally, I’m asked to help a friend with a computer problem. Or the friend of a friend. Or just random people who come across my blog.

But I don’t mind it. I enjoy working through problems, and I always learn something new.

When I worked at one of the first internet service providers in Seattle, I got to know a guy who had endless problems with his computers. This was back in the days of dial-up internet, and he could not get any of his new Windows 95 computers online.

After trying to walk him through the problems over the phone he asked, “Could I hire you to come to my home and fix all my computers?”

I stalled.

Up until this time, I’d only made one house call, and that was to a woman who was the friend of a friend. I spent more time looking for her home than I did repairing her computer. In fact, I spent so little time at her home that I refused to take any money. I felt good about myself and the service I rendered until I found five twenty dollar bills shoved into my coat pocket a few days later.

I eventually decided I could use the money and told this man I’d be willing to come to his home. He was happy and asked, “What’s your rate?”

What is my rate? I’d never thought of it in those terms. That makes it sound like a job. Computers were more a hobby, and it felt strange to ask people who needed help for money. He could sense my hesitation.

Finally, I told him, “Let’s see if I can fix your problems before I take anything from you.”

He gave me his address and directions to his home on Mercer Island. I’d never been to Mercer Island which is one of the most expensive zip codes in the US. All I knew about Mercer Island was that it was home to Paul Allen, who hung out with Bill Gates before they started Microsoft. A coworker told me that it wasn’t uncommon to see Allen’s helicopter taking off or landing on the island.

That weekend, I left my one-bedroom apartment on Capitol Hill and drove over Interstate 90 to Mercer Island. The island is flush with vegetation which makes it difficult for outsiders to find their way around. I eventually found the address I was looking for, but all I could see what a giant gate. Where was the house?

I noticed an intercom near the the gate, and was told to pull my car through where I’d be greeted and told where to park my car.

By now, I’m thinking, “What did am getting myself into?” followed by “Why does someone need to show me where to park my car?”

I didn’t have to drive far to realize why I’d need someone to show me where to park because the first thing I noticed was a lineup of red and yellow Ferraris in the driveway. Surely, he didn’t want me to attempt to parallel park my VW Passat between his Italian beauties. 

We spent more time talking cars than I did fixing his computers which didn’t need a lot of work. I spent at least four hours at his home. He explained that he was the owner of luxury car dealership in Seattle that focused on collectable autos. He was incredibly kind and accommodated my numerous questions about his cars.

I don’t recall much of that conversation because I was in a giddy daze.

I do recall telling him I knew more about German cars because I’d lived there for a few years. And then he said something that’s stuck with me for nearly fifteen years:

“The Germans make solid machines. But the Italians create passion! Whatever you do in life, do it with passion”

I left his home that night with a check made out for far more than I deserved.

But it was his advice and friendship that night that enriched my life.

The room was dark was except the white glow emanating from my computer monitors. It was just enough for me to notice that Luca had snuck downstairs and curled up in Kim’s computer chair.

She watched me type away for a few minutes.

Her brothers and sister were already in bed. It was late. She should have been in bed too. But I sensed she wanted some company.

I removed my headphones, closed Firefox and turned my chair towards her. She jumped off her chair and onto my lap.

“Tell me what you did tonight with the babysitter”, I said. 

“Nothing"

Maybe she doesn’t want to talk.

She put her head on my chest while I tickled her back. I know she loves that. She knows I know she loves that. But I ask how she likes it anyway.

“Perfect”, she says.

I can barely hear Luca’s breathing over the rain smacking against the roof and fence. She has her arms wrapped around my neck. I feel like I’m wearing a bib made of a little girl in purple pajamas.

I swivel my chair back and forth assuming she’ll fall asleep.

I think back to this afternoon when the sun made a rare appearance for a few hours. While the other kids were riding bikes and jumping rope, Luca had situated two umbrellas off the back of a beach chair to keep the sun out of her eyes as she read a book.

I pulled up a chair next to her to watch her read yet careful not to disturb. She didn’t say much to me then. And she doesn’t say much now.

Sometimes it’s enough to listen to the rain together.

The rain was coming down at a pace that didn’t match my wipers: Too much for intermittent but not enough for the slowest setting.

But that didn’t bother me today because having to flip the stalk every few seconds kept me alert during my drive up the mountain.

Once I get out of Redmond I can relax. I make my way through Bellevue before merging onto I90 that takes me up Snoqualmie canyon before jumping on Highway 18. The highway cuts a swath through the hills of Issaquah before dropping into Auburn valley.

The last twenty minutes are the best part of the trip. I zip down hills and around corners through a majestic forest marred only by this two lane highway. Traffic is nearly non-existent, and I suspect a number of enthusiasts choose this route rather than continue down 405 to 167. 

But something didn’t feel right.

My day was filled with interruptions. That’s part of my job, and normally I don’t mind. But today it caught up with me. Finally, near 4 pm I was able to complete the two tasks I had to finish today. Two tasks in eight hours?

I flipped on Last.FM hoping some music would cheer me up before I arrived home, and this is what I heard from the Acid House Kings:

I’ve been heading home
I’ve been going wrong
It’s been this way for so long…

So, come on and be my light
Come on and lead the way
And people speak I hear them saying
You won’t last another day…

Maybe it’s the blah of the new year after the holidays. Or the kids getting back into school after a few weeks off. I should have taken more time off over the holidays because I feel burned out and in need of a vacation. It’s dark when I leave the house. It’s darker when I return home. Feels like life is passing me by.

But this song cheers me up. I’m headed home to my family. I know my dog will be the first to greet me, followed by Kai who will grab my leg and lead me to the kid’s computer where he’ll beg for Dora the Explorer on Netflix.

As much as I appreciate Kim having dinner ready when I arrive home, I was happy to find her resting on the couch with the kids climbing all over her.

I will “last another day”.

Luca reached her arms towards me like she does each night. She’s our oldest child but the only one who will not go down unless mom and dad tuck her into bed each evening.

Just a few feet below Luca on the bottom bunk was Anna. She doesn’t have the same bedtime demands. In fact, I wouldn’t have known she was there had I not kneeled down next to her.

I noticed her body faced the wall. Arms at her side. Not a “goodnight” to be heard.

Was she still awake? Was she so tired she jumped in bed on her own? Did she want to be left alone?

Kim sat on the hallway floor reading a book aloud. That way both the girls and Lincoln could hear the story. I decided to lay down next to Anna.

I put my head on the same pillow. Although we had little light, it only took a few seconds of looking into her eyes that I could tell something was wrong.

Could it have been the time at church today when I asked her to sit at the end of the bench? Was it the time Lincoln and Luca yelled at her because she wasn’t able to save them in a game of Super Mario Brothers? Did she feel left out of the conversation on tonight’s drive around town?

I don’t know the reason. But my instincts tell me something is not right with my daughter.

I couldn’t think of what say. I’ve learned that it’s best to keep quiet during these times instead of forcing meaningless small talk.

I brushed the hair out of Anna’s eyes and tickled her back. Still no reaction. At least she knows I’m here, I told myself.

As I was about to kiss her goodnight, Lincoln yelled out, “I have a wedgie!” to which mom replied, “Well, I’m not getting it out”.

Anna giggled for a bit before returning her head to the same spot on the pillow.

Yes, at least she knows I’m here.